


come over

by evil bunny wolf (evil_bunny_king)



Series: corvidae and whiskey [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, in which Frank gets drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:45:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil%20bunny%20wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by the wonderful ejunkiet:</p><p>"So I was thinking about sloppily drunk Frank losing the tight control he has over himself and letting some of the weight on his shoulders go. Just for a night."</p>
            </blockquote>





	come over

When she returns home from work in the early hours of the morning she finds Frank Castle lounging on her couch.

He looks up at her as she enters. Scrutinizes her, quickly- from the shadows hollowed under her eyes to the briefcase bursting with papers at her side - and heaves himself forward to proffer a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Looks like you could use some of this,” he says, looking pretty damn comfortable, as if he had every reason to be sprawled across her couch at 4 am after breaking into her apartment.

She looks back at him, taking this in: his darned socks, the absence of any obvious weapons, the stack of research sprawled across her coffee table (a social call, then) and drops her bags by the door. 

“Yeah, I really could.”

He slants his feet enough off the couch for her to squash in beside him and she takes the mug as he hands it to her, filling it with a finger or few of whiskey.

They sit in silence for a little while as she sips it, her feet tucked comfortably against his thigh. His head is tipped back against the cushions, eyes half-closed as he gazes at the ceiling, and she feels the muscles in his leg jump as he flexes his toes, tapping them to some kind of rhythm stuck in his head.

“What’s it this time?” She asks him eventually, gesturing to the scattered papers. He grunts.

“Nasty shit. Too late for it now, though.”

He tilts his head until he can glance at her. He looks less battered today, dressed down in a tank and sweats, and his hair is slightly damp as if he’d recently showered- which he probably had, actually, and in her bathroom. The image that conjures is…

She uses the excuse of her drink to look away, taking another sip.

“You were out late,” he prompts after another companionable moment of silence. “Working on something worthwhile for a change?”

She laughs. “Not quite. I have a deadline. It’s at that annoying point, though, when I have everything I need and all that’s left is to-“ she flourishes her hands, careful of the whiskey. “ _write_.” She looks down at her glass, watching the light catch in the amber. “It’s surprisingly aggravating.”

He hums, knocking back his drink. “Sounds like fun. You still chasing up on the dogs of dipshit alongside?”

It’s not really a question, though; he knows full well which leads she’s chasing and she turns in her seat to face him, cradling her drink in her lap. Frank’s never been one for bullshit. This was probably why he’d showed up in the first place.

It was not an easy arrangement, the agreement the two of them had struck. 

“Yeah,” she confirms, leaning back against the side of the couch. “That too.”

He shifts impatiently, shuffling little bit closer to her in the process - and she can already guess what he’s about to say. “Frank…”

"About that deal of ours.”

“Frank.” She clasps the glass with both hands, trying to control her expression, will away the tiredness from her voice. It’s been such a long day. She doesn’t have the energy to argue this again. “Please, let me handle it.”

He wrinkles his nose, casting his head to the side like a child, as if the prospect disgusts him. “They’re shitstains, Kare. They’re not worth the bullet spent on them. And you want to do what-?”

"I want to handle this, Frank. Like we discussed. If you having anything new then - we’ll look at it, but when we made this agreement, we agreed, explicitly, that you’d handle stuff your way, and I’d handle it mine. And this is one of mine.” She raises a hand to her temple, trying to massage away a tension headache that has been threatening for hours. “It’s three in the morning, Frank. Come on.”

He raises his brows, smiling at the ceiling that way he does when he’s about to be an asshole. “’Bout four by now, actually.”

She fixes him with a look that she hopes is withering, taking the bottle from him to pour herself more whiskey- but her smile betrays her, tugging at the corner of the lips.

They take another drink together.

"Alright,” he concedes, after a moment, tipping his head back into the cushion. “You can nail these pricks this time. No guarantees once they’re paroled, though.”

“Of course.”

She relaxes as well, although not before squashing a flying fancy about digging her toes vengefully into his thigh, and then she turns towards him, crooking her elbow on the back of the sofa.

“Is that why you’re here, then? To try and wriggle out of our agreement?" She gestures to the bottle. "The whiskey’s a nice touch, by the way."

His mouth quirks into one of his brief smiles, before he shrugs, blinking at the ceiling. “Not really.”

“The research then?” She looks back to the mess of printouts and photocopies on her coffee table, all covered with Frank’s precise handwriting, a few of them crinkling under his feet. He had an old contact, he’d said. Some guy who went by the name ‘micro’.

He shrugs again.

“Sure.”

She raises her eyebrows at his nonchalance. Frank was normally short with his words, but not to this extent, and the whiskey - was definitely new. “Why _did_ you bring the whiskey, Frank?”

He let his eyes slip closed. “Because I had it.”

She looks back at the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Thinks about his unusual lack of tension, the lack of weapons, and those adorably darned socks.

It hits her.

“You’re drunk.”

He snorts, not looking over. "Nah." 

“Yes, you are.” She shuffles closer in her seat, peering at him and now that she’s looking she can see the flush creeping up his neck, the brightness in his heavy-lidded gaze. He must’ve been at it a _while_ , too, for the bottle was two-thirds empty now.

She finds herself grinning, suddenly delighted.

Frank is drunk.

She’s not sure why that gets to her. Perhaps it’s because she’s not really seen him let loose, in all the months she’s known him. Perhaps it’s because the idea of _Frank_ , _loose_ is – fascinating.

He raises his brows at her scrutiny, glancing at her and then away, but there is a sort of smile twisting his lips and she’ll swear by anything that it’s even a little _dopey_.

“I’ve had a few, sure,” he concedes, at length, shrugging. "You were late. Figured you’d show up before I got in too deep.”

She tucks her hand under chin. “And if I hadn’t?”

He waves her off, stealing a sip from his glass before setting it on her side table. “Where else you gonna go, Murdock’s? You’d show up, eventually. Or maybe I’d get shitfaced.”

She laughs at that, curling back into her seat - he didn’t mince his words, but she’d had a long time to reconcile herself with the mess that had become of her relationship with Matt.

“Thanks for having such an optimistic view of my social life," she ribs nonetheless, and she caves, poking him with her toe.

He doesn’t even grace her with a serious response, rolling his head to fix her with a pointed look. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She laughs, shuffling more comfortably into the cushions, tucking her feet further under his thigh. He shifts to accommodate her, his hand leaving the back of the couch to rest over her ankles and it remains there, a warm, comfortable weight.

“Maybe you aren't. Doesn’t mean I like hearing it, though.”

The smug little smile pulls at his lips again, and it _is_ looser than she’s used to, but he lets his head fall back into the cushions, closing his eyes.

“Haven’t kicked me out yet, though.”

She smiles and sets her glass aside too.

“No. No I haven’t.”

They lay there a little while longer. Karen blinking at the ceiling, Frank still beside her; watching as the glow of morning creeps into the room. The dawn peeks through the surrounding high-rises, painting the two of them in shades of orange and gold.

His thumb swipes across the fragile skin above her heel. Just the once, gentle and sure, coming to rest at the hollow beneath her ankle.

They stay there until the full blaze of the day forces them into action once more.

**Author's Note:**

> That I got this close to fluff with these two is astonishing, haha. The next chapter of 'Author' is coming - a little late, but expect it today/monday. :3
> 
> I typoed 'week'. Omg.


End file.
